


You Don't Know What You Don't Have (Until It's Walking in Some (Purple) Stilettos)

by theauthorish



Series: Red Stilettos and Handsome Devils [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Hand Jobs, Lapdance, M/M, Shiratorizawa, dares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 03:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17052422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theauthorish/pseuds/theauthorish
Summary: They're playing a game when it happens. Not a volleyball game-- not this time-- but truth or dare…Or. Well. It had been truth or dare. Now it’s just dare, apparently, because the option of truth has long since stopped being offered. Instead, the turns go around clockwise, and someone yells out a task for whoever’s turn it is at any given moment…And what happens is, when it's Eita’s turn, Tendou smirks at him, wide and devious, and says, “Let Shirabu-kun give you a lap dance.”Eita doesn't know how to do anything but gape for several seconds and regret ever coming to this stupid reunion. Finally, he sputters out, “What the fuck, Tendou. I don't even like him.”





	You Don't Know What You Don't Have (Until It's Walking in Some (Purple) Stilettos)

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say except I listened to High Heels. by Jojo on repeat for three days and I needed this written.
> 
> I ended up choosing another song but. Yknow. It's the thought that counts. Title is from there.
> 
> Anyway, have some links to the songs--
> 
> High Heels: https://open.spotify.com/track/3CwY9duCa29ye9TDno8mXT?si=wTcZcC9DSO6eyq6sCYI4Nw
> 
> I Get Off:  
> https://open.spotify.com/track/0JKY13K1Io2aqXJb96UyzX?si=VtnLyNoMS5KWQgBQx4Y3gA

They're playing a game when it happens. Not a volleyball game-- not this time-- but truth or dare…

 

Or. Well. It  _ had been  _ truth or dare. Now it’s just dare, apparently, because the option of truth has long since stopped being offered. Instead, the turns go around clockwise, and someone yells out a task for whoever’s turn it is at any given moment…

 

And what happens is, when it's Eita’s turn, Tendou smirks at him, wide and devious, and says, “Let Shirabu-kun give you a lap dance.”

 

Eita doesn't know how to do anything but gape for several seconds and regret ever coming to this stupid reunion. Finally, he sputters out, “What the  _ fuck _ , Tendou. I don't even  _ like  _ him.”

 

“Thanks, Semi-san,” mumbles Shirabu, though his mouth is twitching in that way Eita knows means he’s fighting back a smirk.

 

It's weird, that now Eita can pick out the nuances of Shirabu’s expressions like that, when just a few years before, they’d constantly been at each other's throats-- still are, sometimes. The only difference is, now, sometimes the vitriol tastes more like teasing on Eita’s tongue, enough that he almost wonders if their fights cease to be arguments and were, instead,  _ banter _ .

 

Besides, Eita never said it aloud (and never would), but he was kind of  _ fond _ of the goddamn brat.

 

(Also, he may have been more than fond… but  _ that _ was a secret he’d take to his grave.)

 

Tendou shrugs. “Yeah but you're like. A prude, Semisemi, especially for a senior in college.” He nudges Ushijima with an elbow. “Isn't heeee, Wakkun?”

 

Ushijima blinks at him, slow and confused. “I don't know.” He turns to Eita. “Is he correct, Semi?”

 

“Of course I'm not going to agree!” Eita yelps, glaring at a giggling Tendou. He sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Anyway, don't you think you should ask Shirabu first? I doubt he would--”

 

“Please don't speak for me, Semi-san.”

 

Shirabu’s voice cuts off the rest of Eita’s sentence as cleanly as a knife through paper, and Eita whips around to the source-- who is, somehow, standing in the doorway from the hall, when just a minute ago he’d been sitting somewhere to Eita’s right.

 

Eita raises an eyebrow. “What, you  _ want _ to give me a lap dance, Shirabu?” This provokes some jeering from Tendou, and even Yamagata.

 

“I didn't say that,” Shirabu responds, walking across the room to grab a chair from the dining table so he can drag it closer to the circle of their team. “I don't  _ want  _ to,” he continues, though his actions seem to belie that statement. “But I’m not opposed to it either. It’s simple enough.” He patters about the room setting things up, his heels clicking against the--

 

Wait.

 

_ Heels? _

 

It appears everyone else notices at the same time Eita does-- or, well, that's when they choose to react, judging by the knowing looks on their faces (except Kawanishi, who looks almost  _ bored _ , like he's seen them before; he probably has, considering how close those two are)-- because Ohira (of all people) lets out a low whistle. “Those look rather high, Kenjirou,” he comments. “Make sure you won't fall and hurt yourself.”

 

Shirabu pauses where he's fiddling with a speaker and his phone, raising his head to meet Ohira’s gaze. “I'll be fine, Ohira-san. Thank you for the concern.”

 

Eita’s reaches for the half empty bottle sitting in the center of their circle and doesn't bother to pour anything into his cup. Instead, he twists the cap off and takes a hearty swig of the vodka-- focusing on the burn of the alcohol slipping down his throat instead of the way the purple strappy stilettos accentuate the lean muscle of Shirabu’s legs, the smooth, graceful arch of his foot, the way they make him tower over Eita for once in a way he definitely does  _ not _ like. He swallows down a little more so he doesn't have to think about the ease in which Shirabu maneuvers around in those six-inch death traps.

 

He shouldn't be looking at one of his kouhai that way, Shirabu  _ especially _ . 

 

“Eita, don't drink so much,” Ohira chides, taking the bottle away as Eita weighs the pros and cons of downing a little more. Eita lets him have it.

 

Ushijima frowns at him, but aside from, “You should drink some water as well,” he says nothing else.

 

Tendou is still cackling, so out of breath he’s wheezing, and Eita flips him off for it-- which only sets him off further.

 

Bastard.

 

In the meanwhile, it seems that Shirabu’s finished his preparations, because he cocks his hip and crosses his arms over his chest. “Semi-san, some time tonight, please? I can't start until you sit down.”

 

“Yeah, Semisemi,” Tendou gasps out. “It’s rude to keep him waiting, you know?”

 

“Shut the  _ fuck _ up,” Eita snaps, but to his credit, no matter how much he’s dreading this, he stands and sits himself in the chair Shirabu’s pulled out.

 

Shirabu just stares at him.

 

“What?” What does he want? Eita’s pretty sure that as the recipient, he’s just supposed to sit still and let Shirabu do… whatever he wants, he supposes.

 

With a roll of his eyes, Shirabu presses play on his phone, and the low riff of an electric guitar starts pouring through the speakers-- Eita isn't familiar with the song, but it’s not what he expected from Shirabu. It's darker than he thought, dramatic and almost rebellious, a stark contrast to his put-together, clean-cut reputation and appearance. Eita decides not to comment.

 

Shirabu goes around to stand behind Eita. He starts to twist to look, but Shirabu stops him, reaching around with one hand to take him loosely by the chin. “Relax,” he murmurs, letting his hand slip down to Eita’s shoulder before he can even think to voice a complaint. “It’s not torture, you know.”

 

Eita wonders about that. He has a feeling it will be-- maybe not the traditional kind, but still.

 

It’ll torment him somehow.

 

Shirabu’s hands slide down Eita’s arms, slow, steady. They come back up, and then slide down his chest, all the way down to his navel-- fingertips just brushing the waistband of Eita’s pants for an instant-- and then back up. Eita can feel the heat of Shirabu’s skin through the thin fabric of his button-down, can feel a similar heat flooding through his face. He pretends not to notice (but he does, of course he notices, how can he not?).

 

The lyrics are English, but (un)luckily, Eita’s decent enough at the subject that he understands most of the lyrics--

 

_ You don't know that I know _

_ You watch me every night. _

 

Shirabu’s nails scrape lightly down Eita’s scalp as he circles around to the front. He stands there, back facing Eita, chin tipped over his shoulder to look at him through half-lidded eyes that burn like coals, settling in Eita’s stomach and making him feel… Eita doesn't know what to call it.

 

_ And I just can't resist the urge _

 

Smoother than Eita knew he could move, Shirabu rolls his body, one hand teasing at the hem of his shirt to flash a peek of his hip before he lets it go. Eita’s eyes track the motion, then snap away immediately. He's blushing worse now, Eita knows.

 

He hates it.

 

Damn Shirabu.

 

_ To stand here in the light. _

 

A direct counterpoint to the words pouring out of the speakers, Shirabu slowly lowers into a crouch, legs spread wide, hands sliding from his hips down his thighs to his knees. Eita can't help it, he really can't-- he marvels at the muscles in them, at the way they bunch and stretch so that Shirabu can hold his position.

 

And yes, Eita has seen this sight before, in practice or on the court, but he's never appreciated it this way, never noticed (or forcefully ignored, Eita can no longer recall) the way it makes him look--

 

Eita cuts off the train of thought before he can go any further with that. Nope. Not doing that today. Or ever.

 

_ Your greedy eyes upon me, _

Shirabu slides to his knees, bends back, back, back, arching until he’s peering at Eita upside-down. His hands are running through his hair, down his neck, his chest-- they pause here to tug gently at his nipples through his shirt--

 

_ And then I come undone. _

 

They keep going lower, flick at the button of his jeans but don't pop it out of its hole.

 

_ Not yet _ , says the flash of a smirk on Shirabu’s face, before he lifts up his upper body again, so that Eita can't see it anymore.

 

Eita hates him. So much.

 

_ And I could close the curtain, _

_ But this is too much fun _ .

 

Shirabu rests first his right hand, then his left, on Eita’s knees, using them to push himself up to his feet again, simultaneously spreading Eita’s legs wider.

 

Eita doesn't know why he lets him.

 

Seriously, what the fuck?

 

Shirabu turns to face Eita, runs his thumb teasingly along the curve of his dagger-sharp, mocking grin.

 

That… that might be why, honestly, Eita thinks, tracking the movement with his eyes, swallowing down a lump in his throat.

 

For all that he hates (not) Shirabu, there's no denying that he is, in fact,  _ very  _ attractive-- and exactly Eita’s type, as it happens.

 

_ I get off on you _ ,

 

Shirabu raises one foot, sets it down right between Eita’s legs (so that's what he’d been spreading them for). It's dangerously close to… certain areas.

 

Eita’s almost afraid he’ll get stepped on.

 

He kind of  _ wants  _ to be.

 

No he doesn't. (Yes, he does.)

 

_ Getting off on me _ .

 

Shirabu leans his elbow on his own knee, comes close enough for his warm breath to tickle against Eita’s lips. His fingers ghost down the side of Eita’s face.

 

Eita shudders, despite his best efforts.

 

Shirabu’s smirk only grows more feral.

 

_ I give you what you want-- _

 

His nails dig in to Eita’s chin, just hard enough to hurt, and he jerks Eita’s head up to meet his eyes. “Eyes up here, Semi-san,” he says, voice somehow like the vodka Eita had had just before this-- heady and warm, intoxicating even as it burns at him from the inside.

 

He tilts closer, makes as if he might kiss Eita.

 

Eita’s lips part,  _ wanting _ .

 

_ But nothing is for free. _

 

Shirabu pulls back, drops his stiletto-clad foot to the floor once more. He sways his hips to the beat of the song, bites the swell of his lower lip and sets it free.

 

_ It’s a give and take _

 

Eita sucks in a breath and holds it. He doesn't dare let it go-- not when Shirabu sits himself in Eita’s lap, rocks his hips forward and back--

 

_ Kind of love we make-- _

 

Shirabu pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, tosses it somewhere Eita doesn't care to know-- not when there's all this skin exposed to him, smooth and milky, wrapped around muscles like steel. He reaches up to touch--

 

_ When a line is crossed, _

 

Shirabu catches at Eita’s wrists, squeezing them in warning. His eyes glint dangerously.  _ Try it _ , he says, with a cock of his chin.  _ And I'll stop _ .

 

Eita considers breaking free of Shirabu’s grip and doing it anyway. He had wanted this done, right?

 

His fingers twitch.

 

He lets them go slack.

 

_ I get off, _

 

Shirabu lets him go, ducks his head to nip at Eita’s collarbone so that he gasps.

 

_ I get off. _

 

Shirabu stands again, rolling to his feet in a sinuous motion that brings his chest almost right up against Eita’s face. Eita is tempted for a split-second to lick or kiss it-- Shirabu hadn't said anything about no touching, after all. Just made it clear that he couldn't use his hands.

 

But then Shirabu’s out of reach, and anyway, that would have been weird, probably.

 

Not that Eita cares much, right now.

 

He’s hard (of course), and he wants to say it's just the friction, the sheer sensuality of the song and the liquidity with which Shirabu moves, but he knows that's not just it. If it were just biology, well…

 

Eita wouldn't be this affected mentally, he knows. He’s always been level-headed. But here, now, his mind is a frazzled mess, every attempt at coherence fizzling out into the ether like sparks with no kindling to catch.

 

Shirabu’s taking strutting steps away from Eita, now, hips rocking from side to side, heels making light clicks against the wooden floor that somehow seem loud, even over the rock music playing.

 

_ There's so much left unspoken _ ,

_ Between the two of us. _

 

Shirabu twists his body, raises his index finger to his lips in a  _ hush _ gesture, drags it down over his lower lip, his chin, the column of his throat. He cocks his head, bares his neck like a submission, and a primal part of Eita wants to lunge forward, to bite at it and mark it red and purple so that no one will doubt that Shirabu is claimed (even though he isn't… yet). 

 

_ It’s so much more exciting, _

 

Shirabu flashes that insufferable grin again, the one that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to Eita and revels in it, in watching him come unraveled like an old sweater with its loose thread being tugged.

 

His hands travel down his body again as his body undulates to the music. They find the button of his jeans, pop it open, pull the zipper down--

 

_ To look when you can't touch _ .

 

His thumbs dip beneath the waistband of his boxers, tug them out and release them so they snap against his hips--

 

Wait. That's not. That's not cotton.

 

Those aren't boxers.

 

Is that fucking  _ lace _ ?

 

Eita’s jaw drops, and he lifts his eyes to Shirabu’s, who’s watching him in amusement. As if to taunt him, his fingers play with the waistband a little more, tease at the bulge in the center just briefly.

 

_ You could say I'm different, _

_ Maybe I'm a freak. _

 

Shirabu draws close again, turns so his back is yet again to Eita ( _ it’s a give and take _ , after all, so it makes sense, somehow, that Shirabu keeps coming and going, like the ebb and flow of a tide). He lowers himself, grinds backwards against Eita in all the wrong (right) places. Eita bites back a moan at the pressure--

 

Not quite fast enough. Shirabu’s mouth quirks at the corners, and Eita knows he’s caught. “ _ Fuck _ ,” he hisses out, speaking for the first time since this whole mess started. “Goddamn brat.”

 

_ But I know how to twist ya _

 

Shirabu chuckles. “There you are,” he says--  _ purrs _ , even. “I was starting to worry, Semi-san, you were so quiet.”

 

“Shut the  _ fuck _ up.”

 

_ To bring you to your knees. _

 

Shirabu slides down Eita’s front, creating sweet, perfect friction as he tilts his head back to meet Eita’s gaze, wicked grin  _ still _ on his face and  _ gods _ , Eita is going to either kiss it off or slap it off--

 

Maybe even fuck it off. He doesn't know, but it needs to  _ fucking go _ .

 

Eita grips Shirabu’s shoulders, hopefully hard enough to bruise, and he shoves. Shirabu’s eyes widen, but he lets Eita maneuver him so he’s on the floor again, legs bent beneath him in a crouch--

 

From there Shirabu swivels, so he’s kneeling sideways on one knee. He rises slowly, runs his hand up his leg, tracing the shape of it from the tips of his toes all the way to his hip.

 

Speaking of his hips, Eita’s apparently too entranced by their motion to even bother protesting when someone (it sounds like Goshiki) mumbles, “Uh… Senpai, should we stop them?”

 

A snickering Tendou replies, “No. Nope. Gotta let ‘em grow up, it's been a long time coming.”

 

Ohira says, “Let's give them some privacy, come on everyone.”

 

There are the sounds of them leaving, being herded out by Ohira and into a different room, but Eita can't bring himself to care.

 

_ I get off on you, _

_ Getting off on me. _

 

Shirabu shifts again, starts circling around to Eita’s left. He pauses in front of Eita’s leg, grinds hard and slow and  _ gods  _ Eita can feel him, hard and aroused and  _ holy shit what the fuck Shirabu was hard for him and-- _

 

_ What. The. Fuck. _

 

Eita jerks his head, tries to look away because he just can't deal with this anymore, but--

 

_ Give you what you want, _

 

Shirabu’s foot comes up again, settles on Eita’s thigh with something like finality, stiletto heel and all, and Eita swears he has no say in the matter when his eyes are drawn to where it digs into his leg, with just the right amount of pressure to be felt without being painful.

 

He swallows hard.

 

_ But nothing comes for free. _

 

“Semi-san, please watch me. It would be such a shame if you didn't, considering all the effort I'm putting in,” Shirabu says, and Eita hates him  _ so fucking much _ .

 

(He also wants him, needs him, loves him like he does oxygen but goddamn, now is not the time for that.)

 

_ It's a give and take _

 

Eita gives in, let his gaze hold Shirabu’s and hopefully burn a hole through his thick-ass petty skull--  _ you want me to watch? Fine. _

 

He licks his lip, slow, purposeful, watches Shirabu zero in on the gesture, rhythm stuttering ever so slightly in his distraction.

 

“Oh, I'm watching all right,” Eita drawls, running his palm up the line of Shirabu’s leg, squeezing once around the muscles of his calves, then again at his thigh…

 

_ Kind of love we make-- _

 

“You look good,” he finishes, fingers cupping the curve of Shirabu’s ass, pressing once before he begins to draw it back.

 

Shirabu shudders, but he snatches up Eita’s hand, pins it where it is. “No backing out now, Semi-san.”

 

Eita’s eyes narrow for a second, and then he bares his teeth in a predatory grin.

 

He can play just as well as Shirabu can, and that's always been the case-- volleyball, this, whatever else may come. He's definitely not going to lose.

 

_ When the line is crossed, _

 

“Backing off?” he scoffs, low enough that he feels it rumbling in his own chest. “Please.”

 

Shirabu settles in his lap again, arms resting against Eita’s shoulders, fingers playing at the nape of Eita’s neck. He shrugs. “I wouldn't be surprised if you did, Semi-san.”

 

At that, Eita growls, tugging Shirabu even closer to murmur right into his ear, “Don't test me.”

 

_ I get off. _

_ I get off. _

 

Shirabu scratches a line with his nails, fingers winding into Eita’s hair and gripping tight as he tugs, angling Eita’s head back.

 

“You say that,” he breathes, grinding down harder against Eita’s length, pulling what is absolutely  _ not  _ a whimper from Eita’s throat.

 

The good news is, Shirabu whines too, almost as if in answer, lower lip clenched between his teeth in what might be an attempt to smother it.

 

Still, the bastard somehow finds it in him to smirk. “But you  _ like _ it when I show some attitude.” He raises an eyebrow. “Don't you?”

 

_ What you don't know, _

 

Eita doesn't have time to answer. He barely manages to open his mouth before Shirabu is surging forward, melding their mouths together and licking his way inside Eita’s, stealing the air from his lungs and the argument from his lips.

_   
_ _ What you can't see, _

 

Shirabu’s hands slide down Eita’s chest, fiddling at the buttons of his shirt and pulling them open one by one.

 

When they’re all free of their holes, the shirt hanging open from Eita’s shoulders, Eita breaks away with a gasp, slips it off entirely and drops it to the floor as Shirabu frees Eita’s length from the confines of his too-tight jeans, palms it with one hand so he has to moan.

_   
_ _ Is what I do for you-- _

 

“And  _ you _ ,” he pants out, rolling his hips up against Shirabu, “you like it when I talk to you, don't you? Do you want me to tell you what I want to do to you, right now?”

 

Shirabu sucks in a sharp breath. He says nothing.

 

Eita digs in his nails, hard enough that he’s sure Shirabu will find little crescent-shaped marks in his skin, later.

 

_ I do for me _ .

 

“ _ Say it _ ,” Eita hisses, teeth tugging at Shirabu’s earlobe before releasing it, moving on to suck a dark hickey just below his ear.

 

Shirabu shivers again, but he grits his teeth, making small, aborted noises each time their lengths rub together through the fabric of their clothes. His hands clutch at Eita’s arms, hard enough to hurt.

 

“Come on, Shirabu,” Eita purrs, adjusting to mark up a new spot. “It’s not too hard to say, is it?”

 

_ I get off on you, _

 

Shirabu makes a choked sound low in his throat, and like a puppet with its strings cut, he lets his head slump forward to rest on Eita’s shoulder. “Please tell me, Semi-san,” he whispers, voice a shaky whisper.

 

_ Getting off on me. _

_ I give you what you want… _

 

Eita smiles. “Good.” That earns him another tremor, which is… certainly interesting. Eita doesn't have time to dwell on it right now, though, so it will need to wait.

 

Shirabu starts peppering kisses along Eita’s jaw, lets the music guide his movements again. “I think…” Eita begins, after a hum of consideration.

 

_ Yeah… _

 

“I think first, I would want to hold you down, fuck into you slow and deep and hard,” Eita says lowly. Shirabu groans. “Then I would pick up the pace, go faster, rougher-- I think you like it rough, don't you? You want to be manhandled.” Eita pauses for just a beat.

 

_ I get off on you _

_ Getting off on me. _

 

Eita narrows his eyes, strokes his fingers along the line of Shirabu’s spine, the contact so feather-light it's barely there at all-- a direct counterpoint to his harsh words. “You wouldn't want to be coddled, would you? Treated like you're fragile…”

 

_ Give you what you want, _

_ But nothing is for free. _

 

“You’d want to be wrecked so you can prove you won't break. Isn't that right?”

 

_ It's a give and take _

 

Eita waits. After a moment, Shirabu mewls, “Yes.  _ Please _ .”

 

They're rocking in earnest against each other now, and Eita reaches down, tugs the lace aside to take Shirabu’s cock in hand (finally) and stroke.

 

_ Kind of love we make-- _

 

Shirabu shifts positions-- it's a little awkward, but he manages to adjust Eita’s pants and boxers, pulling them low enough so he can return the favor.

 

He meets Eita’s eyes just then, and Eita doesn't really know how to describe the look on his face-- pupil’s blown so wide his irises are nothing but a thin ring of hazel, hair mussed, sweat giving him a little sheen--

 

But  _ gods,  _ does Eita revel in knowing this was  _ his  _ doing.

 

No one else's.

 

_ When the line is crossed _

_ I get off, _

 

“I’d mark you everywhere--” Eita gasps as Shirabu twists his wrist and flicks his thumb over the head  _ just  _ right, groans and buries his face in the other’s neck. He scrapes his teeth against the skin, presses his next words into it-- “I’d make sure everyone knew you were  _ mine _ .”

 

_ I-- I get off! _

 

Shirabu whimpers, and Eita gets to work on yet another hickey, building up a better rhythm with his hand and speeding his pace up.

 

_ I-- I get off! _

 

“Semi-san.” Shirabu’s breath hitches, and apparently giving up on words, he reaches out and seizes Eita’s chin, drags him up into a messy, wet kiss.

 

It's hungry and urgent and dirty in ways Eita never would have thought Shirabu could be.

 

He wants more.

 

_ I… get off! _

 

Shirabu comes with a whisper of Eita’s name falling from his lips, barely audible, but for the fact that he's still so close Eita feels each minute movement of Shirabu’s lips against his own.

 

Shirabu’s hand freezes, as his climax hits, and with a mumbled curse, Eita reaches for his own length and strokes once, twice--

 

And then he’s over the edge too, a heavy moan of, “Kenjirou,” muffled against Shirabu’s collarbone, like Eita means to engrave it there like a tattoo.

 

The song ends.

 

/////

 

They clean up soon after that, the feeling of relief quickly fading into discomfort as the come begins to dry and the too-cool night air plucks up goosebumps on their bared bodies like a guitarist with his instrument.

 

They don't speak.

 

Shirabu lends Eita some clothes (thank gods they're at his and Kawanishi’s apartment, this time), and they find a note on the dining table proclaiming the others have gone out to a bar, and possibly to Tendou and Ushijima’s.

 

Eita goes ahead and shoots of a text that they finished (and subsequently ignores Tendou’s winky faces and insinuations), while Shirabu cleans up the mess the rest of the team had left behind.

 

“I should--” Eita says.

 

“I--” Shirabu starts.

 

They stop. Stare at each other and wait for the other to go. Open their mouths at the same time--

 

They laugh. “Brat,” Eita chuckles, ruffling Shirabu’s hair.

 

“Annoying senpai,” Shirabu retorts, cheeks flushed, eyes crinkling in the corners in genuine happiness. “What were you going to say, Semi-san?”

 

Eita sobers up. This… this shouldn't have happened. Not like this. “I should go.” He needs to make it right.

 

He can see Shirabu shutting down-- face carefully wiped clean of emotion, voice flat as a sheet of paper when he responds, “Oh. Okay.” He turns and heads towards his bedroom.

 

If Eita lets him go, he won't come out until Eita’s left, and this thing between them with shatter like glass.

 

Eita hurries to add, “I'll come back tomorrow--”

 

“That's really not necessary--”

 

“Dammit Shirabu!” Eita crosses the room in long strides, blocks the hallway entrance so Shirabu is forced to stop and face him. “Let me finish! I was  _ going _ to say that I'm going to leave tonight, but I'll be back tomorrow so we can have a date.”

 

Shirabu’s hand, lifted to shove Eita out of the way (or so Eita assumes) drops to his side again. “Oh.”

 

“Yeah.” Eita raises his eyebrows at Shirabu, as if to say,  _ what else? _

 

Shirabu mirrors the expression.  _ You know exactly what else _ .

 

“We did this all backwards,” Eita admits, and Shirabu snorts.

 

“You think?” he asks, as Eita finally moves aside to allow him to pass again.

 

Eita picks up his clothes, shoves them in the plastic Shirabu had given him. “Tomorrow. Lunchtime. Dress warmly, it's fucking cold outside.”

 

A sigh. “Please don't mother me, Semi-san.”

 

“Eita,” Eita corrects. “Call me Eita.”

 

It’s sheer luck that Eita, from where he stands in the genkan yanking on his shoes, happens to raise his head, then, just in time to catch the flood of ruddy color that coats Shirabu’s neck and cheeks up to the tips of his ears.

 

For a long moment, it's silent again.

 

Then, “Eita.”

 

With a grin, Eita bids his goodbyes and leaves, making sure to lock the door behind him.

 

He can't wait for tomorrow.


End file.
